Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre

by Rod Glenn

Whitman kept the gun and his body facing Carol, but his head slowly turned to greet the new arrival. His smile was forced, but his tone remained jovial. “Hey, John, nice of you to join us. So glad you didn’t miss the party.”

  “You murdering sonuvabitch,” Bryce growled. His voice was shaky, with barely contained fury as he let forth a torrent of words, fired at Whitman like bullets. “I-I couldn’t believe it at first – not you, not Han. Han was me fuckin’ mate. Han wouldn’t butcher me wife and boy. It could’ve been anyone at all, but not Han. But here you are.” The last sentence was a virtual hiss of pure disgust. The rifle was trembling in his hands with the seething raw emotion pumping through his body. His finger was twitching as it hovered over the trigger. He had an overwhelming desperation to squeeze the trigger and put a hole in this monster’s head, but he needed to understand first. He had to make some tiny shred of sense out of it all.

  Glancing from the barrel of the rifle to Bryce’s flaming eyes, Whitman said, “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m sorry, big fella. None of this was personal.”

  If it was possible for Bryce to grow any redder, he did. “Not personal? You’ve murdered everyone! All our friends, families, neighbours … everyone! You’ve killed the whole fucking village!” His voice faltered, then, as a shattered whisper, he added, “And Sally and Anthony … me wife and me baby boy. What kind of a monster are you?”

  Dropping his pistol to his side, Whitman shrugged, saying, “I’m not a monster – I’m just a normal bloke who undertook an extraordinary test.” Lightening his tone further, he added, “Look, all this’ll be over soon and I’ll go back to my normal life and then the doctors, investigators and psychologists can ponder over it for decades to come. Books will be written, films will be made, but no one will ever understand why.”

  Bryce raised his head away from the gun sight, astounded at what he was hearing. “Is that what this is all about? Notoriety? Make you more famous than Posh and Becks?”

  “Nah, it’s not about petty vanity, old friend.”

  “Divvent call me friend,” Bryce snarled, aiming back down the sight.

  “Sorry,” Whitman said, in apparent earnest. “No one will ever know who did this or why. That is the point.”

  “That’s no point at all,” Carol snapped at him, still clutching Jimmy.

  Whitman glanced at her briefly. “Exactly!” He seemed pleased that at least one of them understood.

  “Talkin’s over. You die,” Bryce said, emotionally shredded. The raw emotion and coursing adrenaline was taking a heavy toll on his body. He was suddenly acutely aware of the onset of profound exhaustion.

  In a blink, Whitman threw himself to one side and fired a snapshot towards Bryce.

  The blur of movement took Bryce by surprise, but he managed to fire a round with only a slight flinch.

  Whitman’s bullet lodged in the ceiling as Bryce’s sailed through the space where Whitman’s head had been only a second earlier. Acrid smoke plumed in the hallway, curling snake-like from both weapons.

  Even as Whitman’s shoulder slammed into the wall, jarring him, he was squeezing the trigger a second and third time, each report booming. A moment’s hesitation to aim proved costly for Bryce. The first bullet tore into his thigh, spraying blood against the back wall and door, and causing a guttural cry to escape the farmer’s lips. The second ripped a hole in his coat at the waist, narrowly missing flesh. The barrage was too much, causing him to stagger backwards out into the awaiting embrace of the storm, firing a covering shot as he retreated. The storm itself appeared to envelope him.

  Whitman righted himself and fired one more round out into the darkness as Bryce’s outline disappeared amidst the raging blanket of snow. In frustration, he yelled, “Bryce! I thought you were made of stronger stuff!” With his anger directed at the open doorway, Carol appeared out of the corner of his eye and flew upon him.

  Her knife slashed at his shoulder, ripping both material and flesh. He grunted loudly as hot blood jetted down his arm. Using the Walther whilst pivoting, he parried with a sharp blow to her wrist. The bloodied knife was cast down the hallway towards the kitchen.

  Carol cried out in pain and frustration, but rushed at him once more regardless. Her hands were balled into white-knuckled fists.

  Whitman punched her solidly in the face with the butt of the pistol. There was a resounding crunch as her nose shattered and blood splattered across her face. The blow caused an explosion of intense pain, blinding her and sucking the strength from her legs. She staggered back into the living room a couple of paces with gouts of thick blood oozing down her face then dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap. Moaning softly, she grasped at her smashed face.

  “What is this?” Whitman asked, holding his burning shoulder. “A tag team?”

  Aiming the pistol at Carol’s whimpering form, on her knees, he said with an exasperated sigh, “I’d love to hang around to chat, but time is short, Carol.” He stepped closer, the muzzle a mere couple of inches from her forehead and pulled the trigger. There was an audible click, but no loud report. Rolling his eyes, he muttered, “For the love of God.” Looking down at Carol, he appeared uncertain for a moment. Then, gathering himself once more, he said, “I’ll come back for you two.”

  Jimmy was slowly and painfully crawling across the floor towards Carol. He paused, gasping, “You’re a dead man, Whitman.”

  Whitman glanced towards him and managed a humourless laugh. His eyes pitiful, he said, “You’re dancing with the devil here, son, and the song is coming to an end. When it stops there’s going to be me, and that’s it.” Offering him a smile of condolence, he added, “Haydon is dead. You’re just its last dying gasps; its death rattle. Just get over it.” He turned to the front door, but before he left, he added, in an Arnold Schwarzenegger burr, “I’ll be back.” Then, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, he sprinted towards the open door where the storm and darkness awaited.

  Jimmy struggled across the floor, dragging himself along by his straining fingers. The blood oozing from his abdomen left a slug-like trail across the carpet in his wake. Exhausted, his head slumped down with his outstretched fingers just able to touch Carol’s leg. In a low whisper, he managed, “Carol … Carol …”

  Still clutching her bleeding nose, she turned to Jimmy. Her watery eyes opened and managed to focus on the young man splayed out on the floor. Seeing that he was still with her seemed to centre her reeling mind. Muffled by her hands, she uttered, “Jimmy.”

  Lacking the strength to lift his head off the floor and with his eyes tightly shut, Jimmy muttered, “Listen to us, Carol … get out … of here …”

  Carol took the hand from her ruined nose and manoeuvred on all fours to face Jimmy. Her bloodied hand tentatively touched the side of his pale, furrowed face. “I’m not leaving you, pet.”

  Jimmy forced his eyes open and stared fiercely into hers. With renewed conviction, he said, “No! Get out of here! He’s gunna come back and finish me off. That’s just fine with me, like – I’m fucked anyway.” Pausing to gulp in air, he then continued in a more gentle tone. “You can still escape – hide … till the rest o’ the coppers arrive. Please, Carol – do it for me.”

  Tears streamed down her face as she listened to his earnest words. Holding his cheek with her hand, she snivelled and implored, “No, please, I can’t leave you here.”

  Jimmy’s eyes closed once again, but his lips managed to say, “No … someone’s got to survive … to tell people …”

  “Jimmy, I can’t leave you!” There was utter despair in her words.

  The driving snow stung at his face as Bryce limped round to the side of the doctor’s house. Blood was gushing freely from his wounded thigh, splashing the deep brilliant white snow with crimson. The dark and the blizzard were closing in around him, making him feel enclosed, despite being outdoors. It sapped his fading strength with alarming speed.

  The storm still showed no signs of letting up, the black sky utterly hidden
by a blanket of seething storm clouds. The wind whipped up the lying snow like playful nymphs as it continued to deepen still further.

  The combination of the bullet wound and the knee high snow made progress slow and painful with his already exhausted body. As he rounded the corner, he lent back against the cold wet stone, gasping for air. He stole a moment to grip his wounded leg at the knee, clenching his jaw against the flaring pain.

  After a few seconds of catching his breath, he glanced round the corner back to the front door. The darkness and the thick falling snow combined to distort his vision. Squinting, he struggled to see the opening, and struggled further to see if anyone had followed him.

  He cursed himself for running. Panic had overwhelmed him. He had left Carol and Jimmy defenceless against that psychopath. How could he? Immense guilt conspired with the elements to debilitate him still further. The rifle sagged in his aching arm like a dead weight.

  He had to go back; had to save them. There might still be time. He started forward, but then paused, fear and doubt fuelling his indecision. He could be waiting at the door, ready to kill him as soon as he appeared. But wasn’t he also running out of time? Surely, waiting could no longer be an option. His mind reeled with possibilities and options.

  “Fuck!” he cried out in frustration. The word was instantly whipped away from him on the wind. Shivering, he wiped his sodden face with an icy hand.

  “You can say that again, big fella.”

  In horror, Bryce spun around at the sound of the voice wavering amidst the tempest.

  Whitman was standing right behind him, having rushed around the other side of the house. He grabbed the barrel of the rifle and thrust it upwards as Bryce tried to swing it around to him. The crack of a gunshot rang out above the howling wind.

  Lying still on the floor, Jimmy’s shallow breathing was the only noise to be heard above the moaning wind blowing in through the curtains. Carol was nowhere to be seen. His head was light from the loss of blood and his mouth dry. Occasionally, he half-opened his eyes to peer with blurred vision at the arc of the room that he could still view, including the door to the hallway.

  A loud bang startled him, wrenching his eyes open once more. His foggy mind thought it to be Bryce’s rifle at first, but he quickly realised that it was the front door slamming. The call of the storm diminished only a fraction with it and there was a moment of near silence, save for the flapping of the curtains. Then, footsteps approached and Jimmy’s eyes grew wide with fright. After what seemed like a lifetime, a blurred figure appeared in the doorway.

  “B-Bryce?” Jimmy asked in a croaky voice loaded with fear.

  “Our survey says … uh-uh!” Whitman said humourlessly. Strolling casually over to the prone man, he added, “So Carol left you, eh, kid? What a bitch, eh?” He was dripping wet and red-faced and holding the pistol down by his side. It trembled slightly in his freezing hand. The cold had at least numbed the knife wound in his shoulder to a dull ache.

  “Fuck you,” Jimmy muttered with a profound sense of resignation. “I made her leave. Someone’s got to tell the world about you.”

  Standing over him, Whitman shook his head sadly. “Misguided, but can’t blame you for that. Even if by some miracle Carol did survive, which she won’t, but if she did, no one will ever know my true identity.” His smile was laced with predatory pleasure, but it seemed forced. Bruised rings encircled his eyes and his face was furrowed from a mixture of cold, pain and fatigue. “I’m a ghost, the boogieman … a legend.”

  “Modest too, like,” Jimmy snorted, closing his eyes once more in drained disgust. The words were all but a sigh that seemed to evaporate as they drifted loose from his blue-tinged lips. The tension in his body had abated, leaving him almost restful as he lay splayed out on the carpet, surrounded by his own blood.

  “Positive thinking, fella, that’s all.” Unenthusiastically, Whitman angled the pistol towards Jimmy’s head. “Dug out a fresh mag from the getaway car. This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”

  In one slurred movement, Jimmy revealed the open lock knife that had been concealed under the palm of his hand and swiped at Whitman’s leg.

  The young man’s reactions were severely hampered, so Whitman had plenty of time to react. He lifted his leg out of the way of the blade, allowing the hand to slide beneath and then stamped his snow-covered boot down. There was a sharp crack.

  Jimmy moaned softly. He had no energy left; that one last futile attempt had expended the last of what he had to give. He was utterly spent and fading fast. Even the fresh pain in his broken hand was easily ignored amongst the gentle lapping of the onset of unconsciousness.

  A flash of movement caught Whitman’s attention. Carol had jumped up from behind the sofa and launched herself towards him. Startled, Whitman hesitated just a second too long. She slammed into him with teeth-jarring force. There was a tearing of flesh as her knife struck his arm at the bicep, slicing deep into flesh and taut muscle. As they both staggered backwards, the gun dropped from his suddenly feeble fingers and clattered to the floor.

  Screaming with pain and anger, he spun and cracked her across the side of the face with the back of his other hand. The action renewed the pain in his shoulder and sent fresh warm blood oozing from the wound. For Carol, the blow sent sparks dancing across her vision and knocked her back into the small oak coffee table. Her legs buckled as she sprawled backwards over the top of it, casting the candle and tea plate across the floor. The stump of candle puffed out as it struck the carpet, melting a small hole, and banishing the soft orange glow.

  “Bitch!” he screamed at her, clutching his wounded arm as it hung limp and useless by his side. Blood was now pouring freely down both sleeves and dribbling onto the carpet.

  Bending down, he painfully retrieved the gun in the better of his two hands, cursing and gasping under his breath. As he rose, a sound just below the drone of the wind caught his attention. Standing, bleeding, he strained to hear.

  Then, as the sound grew louder, he recognised it … sirens.

  “Times up …” Jimmy uttered softly with his eyes still closed and his lips barely moving.

  With a tut, Whitman turned the gun back on Jimmy’s head and said, devoid of humour, “It is for you, sunshine.” Then he pulled the trigger. The bullet struck Jimmy in the forehead, above his left eye. His head dropped to the sticky carpet with a soft thunk. Blood gushed through his tangled hair, drenching the carpet around him.

  Scrambling to find her feet, Carol screamed, “Jimmy! No!” She gawped, horrified, at his still form. Her last friend in the world was gone.

  Whitman swung the pistol on her, snarling, “And you, you bitch. Say goodnight!” He fired several rounds at her.

  Screeching, Carol scrambled behind the sofa, crashing over the table in the process. Several rounds whizzed past her, lodging in the wall or zipping out into the storm through the window. One grazed the side of her face, slicing a burning groove across her jaw line, and then a second struck her hip. Her face was numbed from its earlier pummelling, so only barely registered the heat from the graze, but her hip exploded as the bullet shattered her pelvis. She slumped, in helpless, squirming agony behind the sofa, clutching her leg and waist and totally immobile. The gun clicked empty.

  Whitman stood with the smoking gun still pointed at the sofa, listening to Carol’s agonised cries. He thrust the gun into his jacket pocket and went for the hunting knife. He paused with his hand on its hilt.

  The sirens were much louder.

  “Shit,” he muttered to himself. After a moment’s hesitation, he made his decision. “I’m gonna have to love you and leave you, Carol. Hopefully that last bullet will finish you off before they can get you to a hospital, but if it doesn’t, know this … I will come back for you and finish the job.” The utter certainty in his voice stayed her cries momentarily. She turned her attention away from her hip and looked at the back of the sofa to where Whitman lurked beyond. Her bleeding jaw quivered, working
soundlessly.

  Without waiting for a reply, he turned and ran to the door.

  In the doorway, he stopped abruptly and turned back, causing blood to spray across the door and frame. Carol had started sobbing quietly. His tone matter-of-fact, but with a seething undercurrent, he said, “No one will be able to protect you. You can make book on that, missie.” Then he was gone.

  Lying behind the sofa, Carol gripped her wounded hip and bit hard into her bottom lip to try to stem the pain. Her face was caked in the dried blood from her smashed nose, with both nostrils blocked from thick blood and snot. Fresh blood was dribbling from the gash across her jaw and pooling around her waist from her pelvis. She was shaking uncontrollably and staring with terrified eyes at the back of the sofa, expecting Whitman to return at any moment and finish the job.

  She quickly grew faint and her vision blurred. Her trembling abated and the gloomy light slowly faded. As her world grew dark, her breathing grew ever shallower. As the seconds ticked by, she slowly drifted into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER 16

  Slaughterhouse blues.

  The Northumbria Police helicopter set down, throwing up gusts of snow, in the middle of Main Street, between Moe’s and the Green. All directions were awash with flashing lights and activity amidst the swirling maelstrom of the continuing storm. Sergeant Wilkinson jumped down first, then turned back to help Chief Superintendent Hewitt down from the passenger cabin, whist shielding his eyes from the clouds of snow being tossed up by the rotor blades.

  Hewitt took his hand begrudgingly and dropped into the thick churned up snow, freshly gouged up by dozens of police, emergency and army personnel. The street was filled with Land Rovers and other four wheel drive vehicles, with a myriad of different markings; Police, Ambulance and Northumberland National Park Search and Rescue Team (NNPSRT), as well as several with the woodland camouflage of army units out of Otterburn Army Training Estate (ATE). Two further canvas-topped four-tonne Bedford trucks were parked further down the street, next to Belmont Motors. In amongst all the flashing lights, people in thick winter clothing rushed to and fro.